blatantly stolen from SA, but it was just too good not to share...

Was going through my files today, and came across some posts saved from Usenet a very, very long time ago. (Yes, there was a time when you could have discussions on Usenet, and not just trade porn binaries.)

Anyway. This is one of my favorites. Thought I'd share.



quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: technodweeb@cix.compulink.co.uk ("Tim Hayward")
Subject: Worst Date of all time.
Message-ID:
Organization: Carlton UK Television
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 1995 14:33:27 GMT

I was invited to a female friend's birthday party. I was living in a
squat at the time and was awed by the knowledge that her Father was going
to cover the cost of the entire event which took place at a rather snotty
Chelsea Restaurant.

In keeping with the social level of the event, we were classically
seated, Boy/Girl/Boy/Girl, with seat assignations arranged to provoke
sparkling conversation. As we sat down, the seat opposite me was empty. I
began to inhale free wine.

A little before the arrival of the first course, the door opened and an
audible frisson passed around the room. The woman who entered looked not
unlike a young Debbie Harry (We're talking the red rubber dress in the
'Atomic' video, not the current bloater) only with a slightly fitter body
and better engineered breasts.

I realised she was walking towards the vacant seat and seized another
fortifying drink.

I should make clear that at this point, that I was not in the market for
any kind of romantic entanglement as my erstwhile GF was out of the
country for a week.

Oh well, thought I, if she's that good looking she's probably got the
intellect of a potted plant and I usually find that a huge turn off...

"This is XXXXXX, said our hostess and then with a wry smile, You'll like
her Tim, she's just finishing her Doctorate in Marine Biology".

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"

I wrestled manfully with the burgeoning woody beneath the tablecloth and
launched into conversation, taking, as I did, another fortifying draught.
As the evening progressed, it became clear that XXXXX was...

a) Gorgeous
b) Interesting
c) Exceptionally sexually adventurous
d) Not entirely immune to my charms

By a strange coincidence I suffer from a strange, alcohol related
complaint. The more I drink, the more devastatingly attractive I become
to women. Sometimes I become so attractive that I have to take a little
lie-down. I had quaffed aplenty and the evening looked like getting way
out of hand. I punished myself with thoughts of getting caught and the
subsequent distress it would cause my GF. It was then that she explained
that she was leaving for the States in 3 days. At this point the blood
drained from my guilt glands into my erection which was, by now, moving
the cutlery.

We adjourned to the hostess' house where I bolstered my sexual magnetism
to the tune of a half bottle of Jack Daniels.

By this point XXXX was visible in soft focus and it became physically
imperative that we perform the beast with two backs before my entire
genital area became further engorged resulting in catastrophic metabolic
failure due to bloodloss.

She turned to me and, in a voice moist with sexual promise, intoned the
immortal words...

"Shall we share a cab?"

Whatever kindly deities protect the hopelessly drunk smiled down and
enabled me to hail a Black cab in an astounding display of manly prowess.
I held the door and she climbed in.

As I moved to enter the cab a positive tsunami of nausea engulfed me. I
lunged through the door and, for some unfathomable reason, sat heavily
down on the folding dickie seat facing her.

As she resumed the sparkling pre-coital chit-chat, I became leadenly
aware that, at any moment, I was going to puke everything I had ever
eaten in my whole life, right into her lap. The cab bounced noisily
through the darkened streets, the streetlights blurred by tears as I
fought the surging anti-peristalsis which would surely cause me to vomit
chunks of festering stomach lining. On the back of my tongue, I could
distinctly discern a piece of a breakfast I ate in 1978.

We pulled up outside her house, a huge pile which clearly contained a
wealth of enourmous comfortable beds, firmly supportive couches and
intriguingly wrought chairs across which one could spread in the trials
of athletic sexual congress. The huge windows would surely cast pools of
lambent morning sunlight across her tanned and slender limbs as she lay,
in satiated haze. I knew, furthermore, that the kitchen would be stocked
with the ingredients of a fortifying, post-coital breakfast.

"It's my parent's place. I'm staying with them till I fly out, but
they're away till tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come in for a
coffee?"

Coffee!

Bloody coffee. A hideous vision arose before my eyes of the oily slick on
the surface of a cup of rocket fuel java. My eyes filled with tears and I
knew that if I even moved, the gallon and a half of pre-digested Italian
food lapping at the back of my teeth would burst forth in a plume like
spray of projectile vomit which she would be picking out of her hair for
weeks to come.

I shook my head slowly.

"Are you sure", she said, her eyes wide with amazement and disappointment.

I nodded carefully as my mind screamed...

f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***! f***!
f***!
"Please yourself then, but you don't know what you're missing".

Oh Christ! Yes I do.

She walked away, her perfect behind swinging as if on ball-bearings, a
visible reproach.

I inwardly swore that I would shove my head up a dead bear's rectum
before I'd ever touch another drink and brusquely told the cabbie where
to take me.

We pulled up outside my squat and I got out of the cab. I leant in
through the passenger window, held out a £50.00 note to the cabby and
barfed about four handfuls of pre-owned Calamari Fritti into his lap.
Cursing loudly, he placed his hand on my forehead, shoved me
unceremoniously out of the window and screached off with my money.

I stood in place, abject, hung my head and spewed. I vomited continuously
for seven and a half minutes, too devastated, too spavined by sexual
anticlimax, too broke to even think about moving.

Finally, prying small pieces of after-dinner mint from the space between
gum and lip and blowing the last chunk of Amatriciana sauce from my
sinuses, I retired to bed.

The following day, I had to be up at 5.30 for a shoot. I rolled from my
stained palliase with a hangover like the gardens of Babylon and stared
at the strange edifice in the corner of my tiny room. There stood my
immaculately pressed beige strides, stiffly vertical to the knees with a
crust of dried chunder, the remainder slumped over to reveal a gigantic
piss stain on the crotch forming a near-perfect map of the Principality
of Monaco.

At the base of this monument to self abuse were the brogue boots I had
worn. Each toecap bore a three inch high mound of Vom.

I got dressed and walked out to the street and there, in a cloud of flies
stood a cone of puke, pefect but for the two semi-circular spaces where
my shoes had been.

That was three years ago, but as I look down on the perfectly buffed
toecaps of my boots, I still notice the few clogged holes, and I cannot
help but shed a quiet tear at the memory of.....

THE WORST DATE OF ALL TIME.

edit: linkage

link to thread on sa pls

By a strange coincidence I suffer from a strange, alcohol related
complaint. The more I drink, the more devastatingly attractive I become
to women. Sometimes I become so attractive that I have to take a little
lie-down.

hehe, i too suffer from this

and the moral of this story is what children?

heh wasn't all that bad

he could've thrown on her

That was a "Date" ?

Sounded more like a dude and some chick got drunk, and were gonna hook up

Blerg .. still ok :)

As if she wasn't massively talked up.

By "marine biologist" he obviously meant "whale".

lol, poor bastard

sifnt getting out with her, excuse your self to her bathroom, carefully remove as much of your upbody clothing as possible before letting hell reign on the toilet. take a shower, clean teeth and bail back downstairs :P
just like in real life i come up with the answer after its happened :(

As if he'd have made it that far.

He couldn't even give the driver his money.

well reading that was a let down and a half.

well written but lacking a point and devoid of coolness. i thought it was supposed to be a 'date' story?

well that was a crap read
It should be titled
"THE WORST READ EVER"

meh... he should of chundered in the garden, cause if she was a snooty as she sounded then she would have taken good "care" of him...

ps i'd hit it even if she had spew on her

I really like the way he could construct sentences and all that literary specials!

hahaha i love that

i feel so sorry for that poor soul.

traimks, only because you are like 15 and probably don't even understand most of those words

though it would have made it better if he had shagged her

hehe, i too suffer from this



we all do :p

i was waiting for the punch line.